Nhaima stepped onto the Grant, a collection of reports tucked under arm for the now Kommandant Aramond. He seemed to be busy in an officer’s drawing room, so she left it with the subaltern minding the door and was about to return to the docking bay before she noted the familiar sight hunting for a familiar beverage.
She crossed the mess hall’s threshold and picked up a ration bar and the closest thing she could find to ginger ale…. sniffing the bulb it appeared to be water.
“Ma’am,” she said, offering the subkommandant a salute once noticed.